


Complicated Situation

by HectorRashbaum (FifteenDozenTimes)



Category: Bon Jovi, Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-04
Updated: 2009-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/pseuds/HectorRashbaum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie has an alien encounter; Jon reaps the benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicated Situation

**Author's Note:**

> I think warning for "extreme violence" gives the wrong impression, but there _is_ some (gloosed-over, comically-treated) cannibalism (yes I know it sounds weird to say cannibalism =/= extreme violence). Inspired by the songfic meme, takes its title from Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's "Complicated Situation".

The first time Jon saw him, Richie had just ripped Hugh's throat out and was happily gnawing on a freshly-disembodied arm. Actually, he'd caught a glimpse a little before that, an otherwise ordinary (but extremely hot) guy in a long military coat wandering around backstage. Jon didn't recognize him, but there were plenty of people backstage he didn't know offhand. And sure, the coat was weird, but Jon was sure he'd seen weirder.

Richie chewing on Hugh's left arm was one of those weirder things, definitely. Especially since he looked happier than Jon had ever seen him.

\- - - - - -

Jack crossed his arms and tilted his head, trying to make sense of the map Tosh was showing him. Activity from a long-silent Rift in California, and a trail of skull-and-crossbone markers starting in New Jersey, winding around to a number of major cities in the US and Canada.

"All these deaths," she said, moving her cursor over a number of them, "follow the same pattern. Victims all missing limbs, some missing all of them, but the most probable cause of death was the severing of the carotid artery - and enough human teeth marks to safely assume it was bitten through, not cut."

"And we're in the business of hunting serial killers since when, exactly?"

"Always, if they're tied to Rift activity."

"I see Rift activity on the West Coast, and murders starting on the East."

"Right, but the first death - deaths, actually, three - fitting this pattern were a flight attendant and two passengers, killed while the plane was in transit."

Jack's eyes lit up as understanding dawned on him. "In transit from here," and he pointed to the R she'd used to mark the Rift activity, "to here."

"Bingo."

"So now we just need to figure out what showed up in Hollywoodland inconspicuous enough to travel - travel _a lot_ \- but big enough to do that much damage."

"Small enough, actually. The teeth marks were all undoubtedly human, so my guess is it's something little. Internal."

"Or something convincingly humanoid."

"Thought of that," she said, and handed him a folder. "I've got the passenger manifesto, there's not a single name on there that doesn't check out. And the problem is, based on the times of death and the order of the murders, there's no way it could have gotten to half of them on public transport. Checked the few that were possible, and no one from that flight took a plane, train, or anything with any record at all to the next location."

Ianto stepped up with a tray of coffee, and tilted his head. "Didn't know you two were Bon Jovi fans," he said, and set Tosh's cappuccino on her desk.

"I didn't know I was, either," Jack said, as Tosh snatched the folder out of his hands and started hurriedly flipping through.

"Well, you've got the tour schedule up, so – are those skulls?"

"You know Bon Jovi's tour schedule by heart?"

Ianto took a sip out of the last mug on the tray (had to be strategic – that was Gwen's mug, and he never shut up about how she ruined a good cup of coffee with mountains of sugar). "My niece is a fan. Big fan. I'm sure the whole family knows."

Jack figured this was a line of questioning sure to be entertaining, and started to press further.

"Richie Sambora!"

Both men blinked at Tosh, who just grinned, pulled a packet from her folder, and handed it to Jack.

"Richie Sambora was on the flight, the first one. And of course he wouldn't be flying around commerically, not if they're touring."

"Right, they usually use their own pla – I'm going somewhere else now," Ianto said, and walked off rather quickly.

Jack grinned after him for a moment, planning all the fun he could have with this new information, and then turned to Tosh. "Right. I guess we'd better get our asses to a Bon Jovi concert."

\- - - - - -

Probably the most disturbing thing was how _happy_ Richie looked, how absolutely blissful. Happier than Jon had seen him in ages, and he was sitting in a pool of Hugh's blood, tearing hunks of flesh off the arm that five minutes ago had been thrumming out Keep the Faith.

_At least it's just a closed soundcheck. No traumatized fans, no rabid press._

It was almost comforting to know that the damage-control businessman part of his brain couldn't be shut down.

"Okay, Tosh, go deal with the big pukey one. Ianto, go catch the curly one before he falls down. Gwen and Owen, see if you can get Chewy here somewhere you can figure out exactly what's up with him."

Military-jacket-guy was tossing out commands as he strode across the stage, followed by a group of less-oddly-dressed people who scattered as he spoke.

"Uh -"

"Captain Jack Harkness. Torchwood," he said in the same brash, commanding voice he'd used to send his little team to work, and held out his hand to Jon.

"Uh. And Torchwood is...?" he asked, frowning as he shook Jack's hand.

"Short answer, we catch aliens."

"Uh."

"Yeah, they all say that," Jack said, and flashed a grin that Jon recognized as nearly the same as his own I'll-take-care-of-it-don't-you-worry-your-pretty-little-head crisis management smile. Nice teeth.

"Oh...all over my boots. Jack, next time I get to deal with the alien-infested serial killer and Owen can handle the onlookers," said the pretty Asian woman through a grimace while she patted Tico's back. Tosh, was that what he'd said?

"I'll volunteer, I'd rather get my shoes ruined than grabby alie - _Owen_ could you possibly do something about this?"

Richie looked even happier, now that he had not only a (mostly fleshless, now) arm to chew on but an ass to grab as well.

"No, because it's keeping him distracted, and I'd rather not get my own arm ripped off."

"Usually we make a more impressive – Ianto!"

The man holding a cd out for David to sign ducked his head, looked a little sheepish. "I promised my niece, sir."

"You don't have a niece. And there's a time and place."

"I fail to see how this is an improper time to restore a bit of normalcy."

Jack rolled his eyes, but he was grinning (the you're-hot-when-you're-insane grin). "Like I was saying, usually we make a more impressive entrance."

"I see plenty that impresses me," Jon said, looking Jack up and down (if he couldn't charm someone with his array of dazzling grins, flirting was the next step, and he needed to regain a little control here). He wasn't entirely expecting Jack to respond with the well-_hello_ grin and a rather forward ass-grab...but he wasn't entirely surprised.

\- - - - - -

It probably wasn't the most ethical thing in the world, hitting on a guy who'd just witnessed his best friend snapping and ripping another bandmate to bits. Shock, after all, did mess with the brain in any number of ways, and coming in in a position of authority put him in a unique position to take advantage of that messing.

But then, Jack could count the number of times he'd let sketchy ethics stop him from getting laid on one hand.

And anyway, Jon started it.

"Uh."

"You say that a lot," Jack said, and reluctantly took his hand off that feels-as-good-as-it-looks ass. "Anyway, we think there's been some kind of alien interference with your violent buddy over there."

"Like, what, shapeshifting or something?"

"Probably not. We're guessing something got inside him – could be mind control, but judging by most of the other killings, he's stronger than he looks, which points to a little help from the inside."

Jon went a little green. "Other...killings?"

"Oh yeah. Matching up exactly to your tour schedule – one in each city so far, plus one on his flight to Jersey and two between that flight landing and the first show."

Even greener. There was a reason he usually let Tosh explain this stuff, she tended to be a little gentler about it.

"What we need is a fairly big room, preferably with a long enough table to lay him down on. We'll run some tests, figure out exactly what's got him, fix it, and be on our merry way."

"Right. Uh...go off the way you came, turn left, then right, and the first room on the right should work. You'll just have to clear a bunch of food off the table."

"Excellent." Jack turned (and wasn't even a little surprised that Jon was looking at his ass so intently he could _feel_ it.) "Tosh, Owen, I want Sambora off stage left, go left, go right, and strap him down in the first room on the right. See what you can find out, do what you have to. Ianto and Gwen, with me."

"Uh, and what do we do?" Jon asked.

Jack turned again, and sure enough Jon had addressed the question just below his waist. "You really have to move faster than that if you're gonna check out the goods." Jon didn't even bother to look embarrassed, just (you-know-you-like-it) grinned. "And I want you three to stick around. Whatever's causing Richie to go nuts might be transferable, so we might need to check all of you. Just go find somewhere comfy to sit tight."

"We'll need to can - "

"Cancellation's already been taken care of."

"Well. Then I...guess I'll just go sit tight."

Jack made sure to send him off with a nice smack of the ass, earning him a big eyeroll from Gwen.

"What? It'd be a shame to waste that kind of opportunity."

\- - - - - -

Jon was fucking _bored_, which was weird considering the insane turn his day had taken. But he'd been alone in his dressing room for what felt like hours; Tico had taken off after a quick shower and a long tooth-brushing session, claiming he wanted to see what kind of tests they did (thinly-veiled Tico-speak for "gonna try to get laid", probably with Tosh), and David had gone back onstage to mess around with the piano – usually his number one relaxation method, although Jon was surprised he thought it'd relax him if Hugh's body was still out there.

The scene kept playing over and over in his mind – Richie just stopped playing, paused long enough for Jon to look over just in time to see him fling his guitar way farther than he should've been able to (never mind that his guitars were one of the few things Richie always treated well, so even a girly little toss would've been weird) and leap on Hugh.

Every time, it got cartoonier, sillier. Hugh was covered in red paint and Jon could see his real arm tucked inside his shirt while Richie gnawed on a styrofoam fake when the door finally opened and Jack walked in.

"The body's been taken care of, stage all cleaned up. You don't need to know the details, but when they find 'Hugh' there'll be no suspecting Sambora. Or any of you, for that matter."

Jack was undressing as he talked, coat tossed aside (who the fuck wears suspenders?) and buttons undone so casually if Jon hadn't already assumed this was a guy who was so used to getting who he wanted he didn't even really try anymore, he'd guess that now.

"That certain I wanna fuck you?"

"No, that certain you wanna get fucked. And Tosh says they'll know what's up in about half an hour, so that certain I don't feel like wasting time."

Jon could argue, claim Jack had misread, misunderstood, he wasn't into men. But then, the time to claim that would've been back when Jack grabbed his ass, so he'd probably missed the boat. In which case the only real response was to shrug and start getting naked himself.

\- - - - - -

For a second – less than that, even – Jack had worried he'd misread Jon. He didn't doubt he was into men, into Jack specifically, but maybe he'd been wrong about the amount of token resistance Jon would put up.

But that didn't even last until Jon's shirt hit the floor, and he was naked and on the couch and kissing the Hell out of Jon almost before his jeans hit a few seconds later.

Jon was either a little desperate or just one Hell of an enthusiastic lay, wriggling and gasping and moaning and arching, rolling his hips to grind his cock against Jack's thigh as Jack kissed his lips, up to his ear, down to his neck, trailed his fingers over taut muscle hard nipples down to wrap one hand around that hard cock and stroke until "JackGodJackGod..." was all that came out between those impossibly white teeth and those gorgeous kiss-swollen lips.

And then he stopped, pulled his hand away, sat up, and just laughed when Jon whined in the back of his throat. Jon looked at him plaintively, almost pouting, and reached out to pull him back down; Jack just coaxed him onto his hands and knees. Jon, clearly not one to argue with a good thing, just pushed his hips back and started slowly jerking himself off.

Jack leaned forward, scooted his knees back, and ran his tongue slowly – slowly enough to raise goosebumps on every inch of Jon's skin, at least that he could see – down the cleft, stopping to circle the tight pucker and then slowly push inside.

Jon squirmed, whimpered, took his hand off his cock (smart guy, didn't want to come too early and end the party) and pushed back against Jack's tongue, rocked his hips as the moans increased in frequency until it didn't sound like there was a space between them at all.

That, of course, was the perfect time to stop (earning him an exasperated groan this time), and pull up, spit on his hand and slick his cock and ease into Jon, who just sighed and rolled his hips back, trying to make him move faster. And, this time, Jack did exactly what he was asked, because a man only has so much self-control.

Didn't take long to figure out Jon was the sort of practiced bottom who knew how the fuck to take control, and soon they were fucking to Jon's rhythm (although that might've been less Jon's control and more Jack's willingness). Jon arched, pushed himself up, leaned his head back against Jack's shoulder and claimed his mouth in an almost-violent kiss, stroking his own cock with frantic, jerky movements until Jack reached down and wrapped his fingers around Jon's, slowed him to match the rhythm of their bodies slamming against each other.

It was only a few seconds later that he came, cried out, shuddered and arched and then kissed Jack harder, drove his hips back faster, almost instantly transformed himself into not much more than a gasping, sweating vessel and that was it for Jack.

\- - - - - -

"Next time, by the way, Jack, you might want to make sure you're not wearing your headset when you're getting laid. Awfully easy to accidentally nudge it on with all that movement," Owen said, grinning a little.

Jack didn't have the decency to look sheepish. Jon wasn't surprised – he probably didn't either.

"Alright, well, the problem with your friend – problems, actually – are these little guys," Tosh said, and pointed to the picture of a vague, blobby shape ("magnification: 100thouX") on her laptop screen. "Survive best in alcohol, so I'd guess he's a heavy drinker, because he's full of them and they don't multiply well in the bloodstream. Anyway, they're very strong, very aggressive, and I believe – although this one's a guess – adrenaline triggers a bit of a fight-or-flight response. So Richie plays, adrenaline starts flowing, and bammo – angry little critters in the bloodstream force him into action."

David and Tico were looking at her with rather vacant (no, David's was vacant, Tico's was vacant-but-predatory) expressions, and Jon figured he probably looked just as confused. Jack, however, was right into this.

"Excellent. So what do we do about it?"

"Kill them, would be easiest."

"I suggested killing _him_, but no one else liked that idea," Owen chimed in, shrugging when everyone glared at him. "Never been a hair metal fan, sorry."

"We're not _hair metal_."

"Poodle rock?"

Jack slapped a hand over Jon's mouth the same time Gwen elbowed Owen – hard, by the looks of it – in the ribs.

"How, exactly, do we kill them?"

Gwen held up a syringe. "Whatever's in this."

"Oh, that sounds very reassuring," David said.

"It's just a bit – okay, quite a bit – of the flu virus. Should kill them, as well as flush them out of his system. He'll be incredibly sick for a few days, but ultimately fine. And it's all I've found, so it's that or put Owen in charge."

"Go to it. I won't even ask why you've got a syringe of flu with you."

He said he wasn't asking, but Tosh just patted a briefcase and smiled. "For emergencies."

Ianto paused in the middle of handing out coffee to the members of the band. "Have I told you lately how warped you are?"

\- - - - - -

Jon woke the next morning to the sound of Richie puking. Pretty violently. Fan-fucking-tastic. Also, his ass was sore, and David was acting dinghier than usual. Tico, too, come to think of it, but anything would be dinghier than Tico usually was. Of course, he might've been acting stupid, too – he couldn't remember a damn thing about the night before.

When noon came and Richie hadn't made it out of the bathroom for more than thirty seconds, Jon decided the night's show should probably be cancelled. It only took a couple phone calls to spread the word – except he couldn't seem to get a hold of Hugh.

Great, AWOL bassist. That was just what he needed.


End file.
